Last Delivery
by Cressida Isolde
Summary: A bicycle courier gets mugged for a package she's carrying in the elevators of House Tower, one of the tallest buildings in modern-day Las Vegas. AU.
1. Chapter 1

This is something I originally started writing like a year ago for the kink meme, although there is currently zero porn involved. I'm toying with the idea of starting it up again because it was a lot of fun to write. The scenes are pretty short, to begin with.

* * *

The Courier swung her leg over the bicycle and coasted to a stop. She padlocked the bike to a parking meter, and jogged into House Tower. The lobby was grandiose, marble floors and pillars, abstract metal sculptures.

"Hold the elevator please," she called out. The elevator's sole occupant held his hand out, blocking the door from shutting.

"Thanks," she said as she got in, panting a little. The man smiled.

"No problem, kid," he said.

She hit the button for the top floor. Sixty floors, Jesus Christ. She couldn't wait to see the view. As they started going up, she realised none of the other buttons were lit up. She looked sidelong at the man next to her.

"That package for Mr. House?" he asked. She didn't reply.

"I'm real sorry about this, kid," he said. He pulled a gun out of his jacket. "I'm going to need to take it off your hands."

"Fuck," she said. "Okay." She dug in her bag, and handed the courier bag to him, hands trembling.

"Thanks, honey," he said, and pressed the button for the next floor. He half stepped out, then reached over and ran his hand over the set of buttons, lighting up each one for the elevator on the way up. He winked at her. "Just a little getaway time."

She watched the doors close. And then open, and close, and open, and close, for each of the next thirty god-damn floors. By the time she got to the top floor, the adrenaline was wearing off, her pulse returning to normal.

"Are you okay, miss?" the receptionist had very red lips and a beehive.

"Um," said the Courier. "I just got mugged for a delivery."

* * *

She called her roommate to pick her up from the police station. Her bike was still back at House Tower. They'd asked her questions for almost an hour and a half, but all she could really tell them was that he had dark hair and a distinctive jacket. She'd messed around with the composites for a good twenty minutes, but it didn't look anything like him.

She was sitting on the police station steps when her roommate pulled up.

"Hey, Ronnie," she said. "Thanks for coming."

"No problem," Veronica said as she got in. "Sounds like you've had an exciting day. Wasn't much enjoying mechanical engineering diagrams anyway."

"Jesus fuckin' Christ," she said. "It was like the weirdest thing ever. Why don't we go visit your boyfriend, see if we can scab some nitrous oxide from the chem lab?"

"He's not my boyfriend." Veronica stuck out her tongue. "He's just, like, the only guy in engineering that I've met that doesn't hit on me literally all the time. Or assume I'm not smart enough to understand what the professor's talking about." She pulled up to the curb outside House Tower. The Courier got out, unlocked her bike, and threw it in the trunk.

"Your professor is mega-creepy," said the Courier. "Like really intense. Possibly crazy."

"No, he's just really smart," said Veronica, exasperated. "He has all these amazing ideas. Like really, revolutionary in the mech eng field."

"He has a crazy-man beard. That's how you can tell he's crazy."

"Shut up." Veronica grinned. "Let's go to Shadows."

* * *

Shadows was a bar catering mostly to grad students; small, not too loud, cheap drinks, and comfy seats. The Courier was surrounded by a small band of english students that she'd been an undergrad with.

"You told him to take his gun and shove it?" one of them asked, wide-eyed.

"I totally did," she lied through the haze of cheap wine. "And I tried to grab the gun off him, but he smacked me with the butt of the gun and grabbed the package out of my hand."

"Fuck. Do you know what was in it?"

"No idea!" she said. "It was just a tiny package, too."

"Are you in trouble for losing it?"

"Nah. We got insurance. Boss won't be happy though." She frowned.

"Maybe you should carry a gun," one of them said. "I got a friend who got held up at knifepoint for their wallet, he said going to the shooting range and taking some lessons was one of the best things to make you feel better about it."

"I feel fine!" said the Courier. "But that kind of does sound like a good idea for if it ever happens again."


	2. Chapter 2

I think what we can learn from this story is that I have a really hard time actually naming my protagonists.

Also I'm adding some stuff here (just a little), because man I just did not describe anything ever. I'm barely better these days ;_;

* * *

The Courier padlocked her bicycle to a street sign and stepped off. The shooting range was in a short, squat building, painted a sickly faded yellow. She narrowed her eyes at it for a minute, then walked inside. There was a thick wall between the lobby and the range itself.

"Hi," she said awkwardly to the man behind the counter. "I haven't been here before. Or shot anything. Except in video games, I guess."

"No problem," he said. "Let me show you some things." He stepped out from behind the counter, and handed her a pair of earplugs and a pair of earmuffs.

"Both?" she asked.

"Mm-hmm." He lifted her arm, examining her wrist. Her pulse quickened a little, and she wondered if he could feel it. He was tall. Muscular. Shaved head. Wore sunglasses, though they were inside. Kind of hot.

"You should probably start with a .22. Maybe a .357. Wouldn't recommend anything bigger than that."

"No Desert Eagles, then?" she asked hopefully.

"Afraid not." He put a gun and two boxes of ammunition on the counter. "You know how to load one?"

"Nope."

"Okay. Watch close."

She watched him. "Were you in the army?"

He didn't look up from the gun. "I was."

"Were you in Iraq?"

He paused for a moment. "I don't really want to talk about it."

"Sorry."

He shrugged. "Okay. Lane three. Keep your finger off the trigger. I'll show you how to stand."

She followed him.

* * *

"Is he German?" asked the Courier.

"Is who German?" Veronica shoved her gloves and mouthguard into her sports bag.

"Your boyfriend."

"He's not my _boyfriend_."

"He looks German! But Israel's not really a German name, is it?"

They looked at each other uncomfortably.

The Courier narrowed her eyes. "Did I say something anti-Semitic?"

"Not yet," Veronica said, slowly.

"Israel and Germany have a 'special relationship'," she said, thoughtfully. "Much like you... and your boyfriend." She ducked, giggling wickedly, as a pair of socks flew at her.

"So," she said. "Are you going to be home tonight?"

"Nah. Not till late. After MMA finishes, I'm going to Chrissie's to study."

"Yeah, "study"," muttered the Courier. "Does your boyfriend know about this?"

Veronica laughed. "Geez, if you're so fixated on him I'll introduce you. He might talk about theoretical physics a bit much for you though."

"Ugh," she said. "Physics." She squinted into the mirror on the wall, poking at her eyelashes with a mascara wand. "I might go back to the shooting range. It's pretty awesome to be honest."

"You with a gun is kind of a scary thought." Veronica zipped up her bag. "Wait, are you putting makeup on to go to the shooting range? What are you not telling me?"

The Courier frowned into the mirror. "Is it too much?"

"I'd lose the lipstick. Otherwise, yeah, I'd do you."

"Excellent." The Courier wiped at her lips with a tissue. "The Veronica seal of approval. Well, see you tonight. Maybe."

* * *

"You're getting a lot better," he said. "Actually hitting the target lately."

She laughed and punched him in the arm lightly. "What a dick," she said.

It was the first time she saw him smile. "You're still gripping it a bit tight. Maybe a bit low, too." He covered her hands with his own. "Just relax." He shifted her hands slightly, checked her grip. "That's better."

"Cool," she said, lifting the gun. "Uh... could you put my earmuffs back on?"

She squeezed the last few shots off. The range was deserted, the last few customers having left a while back.

"Guess I'll close up," Craig said.

"Want to get a drink afterwards?" she asked.

"Uh," he said. "No."

"Why not?"

"I'm not... great company."

"Sure you are," she said. "I like you."

He shook his head. "Maybe next time."

She raised an eyebrow. "Next time it is, then." She didn't look back as she walked out to the parking lot. She unlocked her bike and pedalled away.

Veronica wasn't home when the Courier got home, so she sent her a text message: _Oh God. Shot down. So embarrassing._

A couple of minutes later she got her response: _Don't let the threat of a restraining order put you off!_

* * *

She was woken up the next morning by her cellphone jangling an obnoxious pop song she couldn't remember downloading. It was work. She had a hard time finding the answer button through her sleepy haze.

"What up?" she said, finally.

"Hey, hun, got some bad news." Rose was nothing if not direct. The Courier appreciated it.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. We gotta put you on administrative leave while this theft's being investigated."

"Shit," she replied. "Well, how long's that going to take?"

"I don't know. I'm real sorry about this. Apparently it was something really valuable. Our insurance is being a fucking bitch about it."

"Well then why the fuck would they send me and not like an armored transport van thing?"

"No fuckin' idea." Rose said. "Anyway, Mr. House is apparently having it investigated privately as well, so you may hear from them too."

"Shit," said the Courier again. "Well, thanks for letting me know."


	3. Chapter 3

She must have gone back to sleep, because she was woken again by the same goddamn pop song. She squinted at the screen, but didn't recognise the number.

"Hello?"

"Good morning." The voice was cheerful, a deep baritone. "I'm with Robert House's security, my name's Victor. I wanted to talk to you about the recent, uh, incident at the Tower."

"Oh," she said, rubbing her eyes. "Okay. What do you want to know?"

"Would you be okay to come here? I can send round a driver to pick you up."

"Whoa. Like, in a limo?"

Victor laughed. "I can set that up for you if you'd like."

"Sweet!" she said. "Okay. Send them round."

"Thanks. See you soon."

* * *

Victor had the goddamn squarest jaw she'd ever seen. And a cleft in his chin, like the guy who played Spartacus in the old movie.

"Why don't you have a seat, sweetheart?" He had a trace of a Southern accent that she hadn't picked up over the phone. While someone calling her 'sweetheart' would usually get them - well, in all honesty probably a disapproving raised eyebrow at worst - in this case she found herself smiling. Flattered, even.

She sat down on the other side of his huge wooden dresser. There was a cactus in a small pot next to his telephone.

"I do hope you enjoyed your ride over," he said. "I won't keep you long."

He opened a desk drawer and took out a photo, carefully stored in a tiny plastic bag.

"We suspect this man was the one who attacked you."

She took it from him, but didn't need long to study it. It was him. Different suit, but still that damn smirk on his face, like he knew something she didn't. She handed it back.

"Yeah," she said. "That's him."

"Thanks, honey." Victor took the photo from her and locked it back in his desk drawer.

"Who is he?"

"You might call him a disgruntled ex-employee," he said, leaning back in his chair. "It's not _quite _accurate, but it'll do."

"So do the police know where he is?"

"Ah." He grinned. Two rows of huge white teeth. "Not yet. We're hoping to handle this, uh, in-house, as it were."

She wasn't sure if she should laugh at the pun. Or if it even was a pun. "Ha ha," she said.

Victor winked. "Now, right here's the second reason I invited you here." He leaned forward again, his elbows on the table. "It has occurred to Mr. House that couriers are, more or less, invisible to most people."

She rolled her eyes. "I know I've been almost run off my bike more times than I can remember."

"That's not quite what I'm getting at," he said. "Now, this gentleman, B- uh, maybe it's best to not give you his name. This gentleman is currently in the employ of one of our major competitors. The package, which he took from you, contains... something we would like to recover."

The Courier stared. "Wait," she said. "Why are you telling me this?"

Victor smiled again. "Now, I think you are in a _unique _position to be able to assist us."

"Uh, no?" she said. "What?"

"If you agree to help us, we will be able to compensate you to the tune of - well, ballpark... let's say five thousand dollars?"

She swallowed. "Are you actually serious?" she asked.

Victor smiled. "I'm afraid so, little lady. There might be a bonus in it for you if everything goes well."

"Well," she said, finally. "Tell me about it."

"The package that our friend took from you contained a data storage device. Just a flash drive. We don't think he'll be able to use it, as it should only work in certain circumstances, but if he figures out how to open it up... well, Mr. House has a number of defense contracts that may be somewhat compromised by this device."

The Courier stared. She could hardly take it all in. This was like a movie. She was in a movie. It was entirely possible that she hadn't even woken up this morning yet, and this whole damn thing was a dream.

"We've worked out a basic plan," he continued. "Monday next week, we've arranged for our friend to be out of the office for at least an hour. You go to reception, say you need a signature on a package. We'll give you the details later. We have a contact on the same floor, who you will not meet, but will make sure the door to our friend's office is unlocked. The device itself looks like this."

He opened another drawer and slid a photo towards her.

"Just a flash drive" he said. "Like many others. Metal cover. You'll note the poker chip on the front, that's engraved. He may have made a decoy version, but we estimate that he won't have the same materials. The real drive will be heavy. Very heavy. If it's light, just leave it." He paused. "You getting this?"

"Uh," said the Courier. "Not really. James Bond shit is kind of out of my area."

"That's fine. We'll give you a file to read. Anyway, sweetheart, you'll have an hour; we'll call you if our friend is likely to be back before schedule. If someone else comes in, you'll say you were leaving a card to call. If people get really suspicious, our contact will create a diversion, and by that I mean they'll likely pull the fire alarm." He smiled. "No sleeping gas or explosions."

"You mean this one's not directed by Michael Bay?"

His smile was slightly strained. "We're hoping to avoid anything flashy. We'll be able to give you copies of the master key to the office drawers, as well. Our friend's unlikely to have changed those. If you can't locate the drive, that's fine. Just leave. We think it'll be there though, it'd be risky to carry that around with him."

He pushed a dossier across the table towards her. "Now, are you in?"

"Do I need to bring a gun?" she asked, still staring in amazement.

"No!" he exclaimed. "Hell no. If you're found with a gun there'll be a lot more questions. Keep it simple."

"Well okay," she said. "I'll do it."


	4. Chapter 4

Veronica stared at the Courier, horrified.

"Are you actually serious?" she asked. "Why would you agree to this?"

"Thinking back on it, I don't know," said the Courier. "It doesn't really seem like a good idea, does it?"

"Holy shit, no!" Veronica ran a hand through her short, dark hair. "If you get caught I'm pretty sure they can put you in jail."

"It can't be _that _illegal, can it? I mean, he stole it from me in the first place, I'm just stealing it back."

"I think it's still illegal if you practically break into some guy's office and steal something."

"Yeah." The Courier was unconvinced. "Still. Five thousand dollars in this economy would be a pretty hard thing to turn down."

"And now you've told me I'm pretty much an accessory! Oh my God. I'm _so_not being your getaway driver."

"Shush," she said. "It'll be fine." She ignored Veronica's incredulously raised eyebrow which clearly said _uh, no it won't_. "Anyway," she said. "While I'm in the mood for some risk-taking. Gonna go shoot some things."

* * *

"Yeah," said Craig. "Not bad. Your breathing's still letting you down, though. Try not to breathe when you're taking the shot. Hold it, in or out or whatever."

She held her breath and took the next shot.

"Good," he said. "Better. You've a fast learner."

"Well," she replied. "I come here, like, all the time. Got stood down from my job and I don't know how long it'll take for the investigation..."

His eyebrows drew together. "What's this?" he asked.

"Oh, hell," she said. "It's a fuck of a story." She sighed, then looked up hopefully. "Could tell it to you over drinks, maybe."

He blinked at her for a second or two, then gave her an almost-smile. "Yeah," he said. "Alright. Why the hell not?"

She followed him out to a beaten up blue pickup truck, and lifted her bike into the bed.

When he started the car, Springsteen started playing on the CD player. She grinned.

* * *

"So, yeah. Almost got shot, decided to learn to shoot. Paying it forward." She grinned. "Not that I'd be able to carry it around when I'm working. I go into a lot of corporate offices that probably wouldn't be too happy about it." She sipped her wine. She was at the end of her second glass, but she'd completely lost count of how many bourbon and cokes Craig had drunk. The weirdest thing was that it didn't seem to be affecting him _at all_. He was no more talkative, no more relaxed, no happier, or sadder for that matter.

"Why did you become a courier?" he asked. "You got a degree, didn't you?"

She laughed. "Well. _This fucking economy _is pretty much the answer to that. Seems like there aren't that many people willing to cycle around Vegas in the middle of the fucking summer."

"I don't get why they stood you down," he said.

"Me either, really. I mean, I clearly wasn't involved. Although I am now, so whatever."

"What do you mean?" he asked. The bar he'd driven them to was too dark for him to keep wearing his sunglasses, and without them his gaze was very... direct. Slightly intimidating. Penetrative. She winced. Mind out of the gutter. Now.

"Um, uh, what? Oh yeah. They asked me to get it back for them." She shrugged. "So I said yes." Holy shit, why would she _tell him that? _Did she think something like that would impress him? She needed to say something else. Quickly.

"Why'd you leave the army?" she asked, all the words coming out in a rush.

He seemed to shut down, close himself off from her. He looked away, breaking that eye contact that had seemed almost tangible.

"A lot of people died that shouldn't have," he said. He stood up. "It's getting late," he said. "Probably time to go home."

Shit.

It wasn't until he almost got hit by the swing of the door when he opened it that she realised how drunk he actually was. He took a couple of tries to unlock the driver side door.

"Whoa," she said. "You're not driving."

He ignored her, getting into the driver's seat.

"Seriously!" she said. She held onto the door when he tried to shut it. "Get out or I'm going to call 911." He stopped and looked at her. She almost recoiled. There was a strange look in his eyes, blank and numb and uncaring.

"I'll drive," she said quietly. "Just tell me where you live."

It wasn't far away, and even though it had been a few years since she'd driven stick, she managed to get there without crunching too many gears.

She pulled up outside a small apartment block.


End file.
